


Far From Home

by tirsynni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bilbo is a foolish hobbit, and to Thorin apologizing sounds too much like good-bye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Home

By their very nature, hobbits were hardy folk. Poisons and injuries and diseases which could fell the hardiest of men staggered a hobbit, but they always pushed on with a tenacity which would stun a dwarf. Thorin would only reflect on this later, when he wondered why he was so surprised at the news, or why it filled him with dread.

A dread strong enough to kill whatever rage remained in his heart over Bilbo Baggins’ betrayal.

“I did not believe hobbits fell ill.” His voice was curt, more curt than recommended around a wizard, but the dread ate at him. When Gandalf approached him after the battle, Thorin thought he came with news of death by the furrow of his brow and the darkness of his eyes. Instead, he reported that Bilbo had fallen ill and bade Thorin to hasten to his side.

“Of course they do.” Gandalf’s response was a sharp rebuke. Mere days before it would have riled Thorin to arms, but the edge in Gandalf’s voice only added speed to his pained steps. He refused to limp before the staring eyes of the humans and elves, but the ache was bone-deep. Balin had been pleading with him to rest before Gandalf’s arrival.

Gandalf said no more. Thorin imagined for a breath of a moment a sniffling, sneezing hobbit, whining in bed about how the cold kept him from fleeing for home.

The thought only lasted a moment. He had no time to waste on such foolishness.

The guards at the tent bowed but neither Gandalf nor Thorin paid them mind. While Thorin froze at the opening of the tent, Gandalf strode on until he reached the small pallet. The figure on it seemed thin and frail, curls damp and limp, face flushed.

Thorin had sworn that he would make the hobbit pay if he saw him again, but it looked like he was too late.

“My dear boy, Bilbo,” Gandalf murmured, a foreign tenderness to his tone and his fingers as he brushed away a sodden curl. “What have we done to you?”

Bilbo’s cough raked over Thorin like Bilbo’s beloved Sting. His response was too soft for Thorin to hear, but the roaring in Thorin’s ears made discerning any other noise difficult.

His burglar looked like he was dying.

Gandalf reached down and took Bilbo’s hand. It looked tiny in the wizard’s, no more than a child’s hand. Bilbo’s clever fingers were limp and lifeless.

“None of that, my dear boy,” Gandalf said. He squeezed Bilbo’s hand, and it vanished from Thorin’s sight, swallowed by Gandalf’s hand. “I brought someone who would like to see you. You would not like to be a bad host, would you?”

Thorin held his head high and took a step forward. He recalled stepping onto that porch so long ago, Gandalf’s mark shining on the door. He took another step and recalled Bilbo hopping in front of the trolls, clever tongue working and stalling as the sun slowly rose. Another step and himself charging forward, only to fall. The fourth step took him to Bilbo’s bedside, and he stared at that small form which had stepped between him and Azog so very, very long ago.

“Thorin,” Bilbo croaked, and Thorin reached forward to put his hand on Bilbo’s chest. He could feel the heat through the blankets. Too late, he remembered what last occurred last time he was so close to Bilbo, but Bilbo only smiled at him, thin and frail and lips too pale.

“Master Bilbo,” he returned. Gandalf released Bilbo’s hand, and Thorin didn’t hesitate to grab it. He thought Bilbo’s small hand fit much better in his than it had Gandalf’s.

Bilbo’s cough was deep, wet, dragging up from his chest like dragon’s flame. His words were just as wet as he stuttered apologies. His eyes glistened and Thorin blamed the fever.

“Shush, Master Bilbo,” he murmured. “Do not waste your strength on foolish words.”

Foolish because the only apology owed was to Bilbo, but Thorin would not apologize. It would be too much like apologies made to a creature on his deathbed. Bilbo would not die from something as infantile as a cold.

He refused to let it happen.

Thorin saw those pale lips move, and he knew the stubborn hobbit would protest and try to apologize more. Thorin did the only thing he could.

He sang.

He sang of the final battle of the Five Armies. He sang of warriors falling and the distant gleam of gold. He sang of his kin, somehow saved by the grace of a long-absent god. He sang of men and dwarves and elves coming together against the darkness in a clash of metal and flame.

When he stopped, Bilbo was sleeping, shaking with fever. Thorin sat beside him and held his hand, and he sang of a burglar far, far away from home. 

When the shaking stopped, Thorin sang some more.


End file.
